It wasn’t that our valiant white steed was dirty. Someone would say, “Looks like your truck needs a wash.” To which I would reply, “No, That’s just our look.”

I relate it to the recent Grammy Awards, when a particular rock group approached the stage to receive their award, and the members of said rock group were attired in a melange of casual wear, or what those in the know might call “rags.” Benjamin pointed out that the people with them wearing suits and tuxes were obviously the business people of the group, i.e., the manager, the producer, and the valet attendant. How did he know that those other people were clearly not in the band? Because of their look. Tuxes and suits just don’t say “cool rock band.” On the other hand, you take one look at the four scruffy-faced, greasy-haired, shabbily-dressed, and generally disheveled fellas on stage and you know, instantly, that they are “rockers” and they are cool. Likewise, you can take one look at our dusty truck, and know, instantly, that we are… tired and dirty. But COOL tired and COOL dirty.

Like I said, though. It wasn’t that our noble minister of transportation was dirty, per se, but that it began to deliver prophesy. At first it began with simple Holiday pleasantries.

Merry Christmas. Then, Merry Valentine’s Day, followed by Merry Easter (a little odd, I know, but one can’t expect a trailer to understand the commonly accepted usage of Merry versus Happy. It’s a miracle that it can form words at all). But then, spreading holiday cheer just didn’t seem to be enough. Notice the next line.

“Easter Now, Apocalypse Later.” I’m sensing a fiery sermon coming on. As to what it might say next is anyone’s guess.

“You shall be fuel for the fire. Your blood shall be in the midst of the land. You shall be no more remembered.” Ez 21:32

or worse,

“Free Merchandise Inside. Act Now!”

There’s something unappealing about driving around spewing damnation from the back of your trailer. Soon, all the other trucks are honking at you, and little children are crying. And you’re just trying to pick up the dry cleaning.

So it was off to the car wash. Actually, we can’t pull this thing through a normal car wash, No, we have to stop at the “TRUCK WASH,” out by the weigh scales, off remote exits of the highway where normal civilians dare not venture. Apparently there is only one truck wash in each timezone, and if you’re lucky enough to find it, you wait in line for several hours or several days, subsisting on Slim Jims and boiled peanuts, which are the only things available at truck stops. To pass the time we play games like “waiting patiently” and “tag”.

2:07 pm - Tag commenced

It’s a proud moment when the head worker, or “workerhead,” waves you into the inner sanctum. There, men in hazard gear proceed to power spray and soap up your vehicle, while you stand by on the side, trying to look knowledgeable by nodding your head in an approving manner. I actually watched as one worker power sprayed the fender of a truck clear off, while the driver stood there gently moving his head up and down in agreement.

Finally, the workerhead gives the signal and, like a proud new daddy, you are allowed to drive your glistening vehicle back onto the dusty roads, where dirt is immediately attracted to the still drying surface, thus ensuring the livelihood of the truck wash workers. It’s a beautiful cycle really. Someone should institute vehicular baptism. Cleansed once and for all.